On My Own Wings
by CuteCat213
Summary: It was choking him, suffocating him, KILLING him. Crushing him under gilded chains he couldn't escape from. But what can Luke do, yearning for the sky, for *freedom* as he does, when almost everyone around is determined to break his wings? Will he ever fly free? Luke-centric one-shot!


**I really shouldn't be writing this: I have at least three other things I should be typing up instead. But this bunny started knawing on my brain and wouldn't leave (like most of my posted one-shots- hmm...) and I couldn't _not_ write it.  
****-_-"**

**This is a completely Luke-centric one-shot about how Luke might have been if he were a bit more independent and less tolerant of his house-confinement. I dunno: I got a little metaphor-y and existential, I believe, but let me know what you think.**

**Switches from past-tense to present-tense. The past-tense can be thought of as the prologue.**

**No spoilers for anything beyond about the first... twenty minutes of gameplay.**

* * *

From the very first, Luke hated the manor and surrounding estate. Hated his own body and its limitations. Hated the people who kept him closed in day after day. His first memory -when later shared, he was told it was a dream; a nightmare- was of cages. Cold, metal, suffocating, enclosed cages.

When he'd next opened his eyes, in the place they called his room, saw the sky for the first time he could remember, he'd thought he was free. He'd been wrong. Every day, every moment, he was bound tighter than he'd been in that small dark place they'd said was all in his mind. The maids around him, watching, gossiping, even when he hadn't known the words, hadn't known what words _were_; they watched him struggle to learn to control his body, to speak. He hadn't liked the sensation, but he hadn't known enough to really, truly appreciate his situation. Until, of course, he had.

It was when one of his mother's friends brought over her prized songbird, and he watched Lady Suzanne and her friend and all the ladies-in-waiting crowd around that gilded golden cage that Luke had _really_ understood it. That was him, that's all he was to these people: a pretty songbird that was preened and taught to sing so he could be placed in front of a crowd to be admired. All his flailing, all his efforts, and they watched him like a new-born hatchling on display.

Apparently, he wasn't even good enough for that. All the lessons, all the words -_dammit_, how many words did they really need?!- and courtly graces that were forced on him every day of his life. He wasn't a songbird to his tutors, to the wait-staff that was forced to look after him. Then he gained a new title: Failure. Too stupid to learn all he should, too cowardly to face his past, too pathetic to even remember the faces of the people he'd seen every day of his life up until the amnesia.

Pathetic. Failure. Useless. His father never said the words out loud, but they rang clear as a whistle in those condemning eyes of his. And in spite of knowing he was supposed to love this person -not because he _knew_, or _remembered_, but because he was told so all the time- he felt something very close to hate for Duke Fabre. Even as far as birds went, that man was lacking. Cold eyes, stony silences, and instead of encouraging Luke to fly, he stymied him at every turn. No leaving the grounds, no leaving the _manor_, no climbing, no talking with the servants; the list was endless and new restrictions added bi-hourly. If the man had seen Luke being preyed upon by a snake, the redhead was fairly certain he'd have stood back and asked for something to snack on as he watched the slaughter.

Luke hated it all. Every day, forced to a desk to study, doing his best- making _leaps and bounds_ of progress, and every time it ended the same: 'Well, that's better, but not where you should be. Back to work; try harder.' Never enough. _Never_. And with each word he felt the chains around him tighten, constricting, squeezing out a little more of whatever the amnesia hadn't already taken from him.

He was so _sick_ of everyone always telling him what was good for him. They looked at the surface, constantly scratching away and trying to get to the Luke they thought he was _supposed_ to be but _wasn't_. And he didn't want to _be_ that Luke. Not really. He was sorry to disappoint everyone: he disliked it. But he disliked the thought of losing what little _him_ he had left, the only him he'd ever known, in whoever _their_ him turned out to be.

The first time he'd learned to walk; learned to run, it had been the best day of his life. _Finally_, he was free to go where _he_ wanted to, to walk on his own legs, decide where he would end up. He wanted to just keep on running, away from the tutors, away from the manor, away from his failure. To just walk out and never come back; fly away and never come down. But it wasn't to be. The guards didn't let him out, the walls penned him in, and all he'd ever see of the sky was the oval visible from the courtyard.

It was staring up at the sky one night when he and Guy, his friend-slash-manservant, had started aimlessly chatting back and forth. _This_ talking, Luke didn't mind; because Guy didn't press him, didn't scold him when the words came out wrong or wouldn't come out at all. Guy didn't see him as the songbird everyone else did; he was a person, his friend. He couldn't even recall what the conversation had started out as; they tended to wander seemingly-pointlessly from subject to subject, Guy answering any questions he could come up with, telling stories, or sometimes just sitting out on the roof enjoying the quiet of the evening. Those last ones were Luke's favorite: just sitting up there, closer to that great blue wonder, listening to the insects buzzing around Pere's precious flowers for pollination, the shuffle as the wind blew through the stalks and played a rustling melody over the leaves and grass.

But that hadn't been one of those times; that time had been the one of talking -curled up on the roof with his knees held to his chin to stave off the chill of the night- of sharing knowledge and wonder and dreams. And somehow the conversation had turned to the future, when Luke had said, with such honest, aching sorrow and longing -when asked what he wanted more than anything in the whole world- he hadn't said a thing about getting his damned memories back; his answer had been simple: "Freedom."

The silence that follows this statement is one of those that always happens when he gives a very odd and completely unexpected answer to a question. Sensing the change in the otherwise light conversation up until that point, Guy tries to change the subject and cheer him up. "What do you want to be someday?"

And this question, too, evokes an immediate, unhesitating reply as Luke's right arm straightens and points up into the dark evening sky, past the glowing of the Fon Belt and into the blue-black darkness behind it, ending on one shining point in the vast sky he so loved.

Guy follows the line of his arm, expression puzzled before incredulous disbelief takes its place and he looks back at the redhead, "You want to be... a star?"

Luke nods, "That's going to be me someday." His voice has a determination, a pure-hearted, unbreaking _belief_, "One day, I'm going to leave this place and all its trappings behind. I'll fly free, out there where no one can touch me, where the words and insults are too far to hear anymore. Someday, some way; I'm going to be free of it all."

And then the moment of wary-tension breaks over them when the blonde smiles, that amused, wondering smile he gets when Luke says something completely unexpected, but something so right; one of those things Guy doesn't think he's capable of; 'wisdom from innocent hearts' the blonde often called it. And it warms Luke up inside, takes away some of the inner chill from never being good enough, because in those moments, he knows he's exceeded Guy's expectations of him, and he can feel how proud the other is of him as a person. "You know, I think you will, Luke." And just once in a very great while, Luke knows that, caged or not, he's not alone.

It's memories like those that carry him through the endless days on the ground. The only thing that keeps his head above water when he feels like he's drowning. Until the first time he picks up a sword, and a whole new world of freedom opens before him.

The feeling of his muscles stretching under his will, the precision of the motions, the excitement of clashing blades with another. It's a flaring of his wings, opening in preparation for flight. He's clumsy at first -a fledgling testing his wings- but he'd had to learn to walk before running; and from the first moment he wraps his hands -incorrectly- around the practice sword, he knows that the end result will be worth whatever pain and effort it costs him.

It's grueling work, hours of practice under the searing heat of the sun, nights spent in agony as overworked muscles cramp from how hard he pushes himself, mornings spent walking off the previous day's aches with more work. Pushing further, harder, _more_. Because for those moments when he's twirling through the air, when the whistle of his blade is a song in his blood and joy in his heart, when his hair is nothing more than a red flag behind him with the grace of his movements; when he moves just enough to avoid his opponent's strikes, Luke is free, and that's worth all the pain.

Master Van becomes one of the most important people in his small -ever _shrinking_ (_dammit!)_\- world, because he holds the key to Luke's cage. That damnable gilded thing that traps him here just out of reach of his greatest dreams and desires with a ferocity, an _itch_, that's as bad as a festering cut -and he's had his fair share of those when he's hidden wounds because he doesn't want others to see them and _fuss_ at him like they always do- and- _oh __**please**__ let me fly_!

And for those days Van's there, and the few he can convince Guy to give him, they do, and it's the greatest feeling in the world and he never wants it to end, but it always does. And they pet him, preen him, and stick him back in his cage, no matter how he tries to get away, to make it last. But Luke discovers, to his despair, that it stops being enough for him, that his freedom, wonderful as it feels, is false; because it's not _his_, and they can take it from him any time they please. It's a horrifying thought, because limited and false as it is, it's _all he has_, and he clings to it desperately even as it's ripped from his grasp.

But one day, that all changes. He gets up, eyes on the sky from the moment they open, a painful envy for the doves that scatter from somewhere in the city where he can only assume a wedding has taken place. The words he shares with Guy -false reassurances of the non-existent care from a man who hates him- after one of his migraine episodes, talking to Pere about his work on the gardens that offer some of the only reprieve he has in his prison, and sitting in stifling silence at the breakfast table under the glaring stare of his father. The atmosphere tense in spite of his mother's soothing presence, and he looks up when Van enters the room, feeling his feathers rustle in anticipation.

The words he cares about -nothing to do with Fon Masters and kidnappings- but that his key will be leaving; for _weeks_, are crushing. It takes a lot to keep from hyperventilating in panic, chest heaving with the thought of staying in, of being _trapped_, for _weeks_ on end; the very _thought_ is terrifying. The walls are closing in on him, and there's nothing he can do about it. He's just a pathetic little songbird failure; stuck in his prison behind these bars.

And he's utterly helpless about this cruel fate: let out of his golden cage to fly about the room, look out the window; before he's stuffed back in by his masters so he doesn't escape. He can flap and tweet and scream all he wants, but he knows better than to ever peck at the hands that hold his hopes in-hand; he knows that if he ever does that they'll clip his wings- permanently.

He begs for one last chance before he's grounded, not caring how petulant or whiny it sounds; _needing_, more than anything -more than the food on his plate, more than his next breath- to feel the wind around him one last time while he has the chance. The acquiescence doesn't bring instant relief, doesn't ease the terrified pain in his chest; but it does make it -just a little- easier to breathe, easier to accept his coming confinement.

When he steps out into the courtyard after the meal, closing his eyes and feeling the heat of the sun on his face, the touch of the wind on his skin, he imagines that there are no whispering maids around him, no scowling guards, no stone walls to keep him bound in this place he despises with all his being. He opens his eyes and throws himself into his training, feeling the pull and glorious strain on his muscles, his hair billowing out with his swift turns and skillful strikes like so much scarlet plumage, he smiles -_grins_\- ferally. Thrust. Peck. Slash. Scratch.

When the melody reaches his ears, he halts, because it sounds startlingly familiar. The song carried on the wind through-out the manor is so much like the one that echoes in his heart. But the one singing it, approaching- _targeting his key_, threatens to take away the last, the _only_ freedom he has left, and Luke's heart almost stops in horrified panic. If the manor wasn't even safe for Master Van, his parents would _never_ let him leave; majority or not! The panic turns to a _furious_ determination, and he turns his blade to this new threat, not hesitating in the least to throw himself against an unknown enemy that for all he knows may be out of his league.

And even if she's a threat to everything he holds dear, Luke can't help the rush he feels as they clash weapons, because he's never felt this excited; never flown this high. This woman could very well _kill him_ -not at all like the intense-yet-careful sparring of Van and Guy- and it's a rush unlike any he's ever experienced. He can't stop the smile as he turns around to block the woman's staff, or the thoughts that come with facing a true challenge, a real opponent! _More! Hit harder, strike quicker; take me higher!_

He's panting in excited exertion as they both strike with everything they've got, and suddenly he's enveloped in warm white light, rainbows of ribbons surrounding them, the sensation of being lifted and dropped follows before everything goes black.

When Luke finally comes to and opens his eyes, it's to a clear-indigo night sky with shining points of silver. The smell that surrounds him is different than what he's known his whole life: fresher, greener, _clearer_. The area around him is alien in its beauty; a million colors of green, with white flowers that glow in the moonlight, trees higher than the one back on the estate that he climbed in effort to get as far away from the ground as he could. It's overwhelming at first, and wonderfully scary.

_I... I'm __**out**__._ His chest tightens until he can't breathe, but isn't in panic; it's everything Luke can do not to cry. The woman -apparently not planning to attack him- is completely unimportant, because he's _out_!

He turns around, eyes widening at the sight in front of him, "...Is that the ocean?!"

The woman replies -asks something scathingly, he thinks, but he's not paying attention really- and he ignores her. He crawls across the grassy field, _just because he can_, feeling, _savoring_, the sensation of each blade of grass and silk-softness of every petal against his palms. It takes a lot not to lean down and rub his cheek against the flowers just to see how it would feel. But he can't stop now; he moves forward, to the edge of the cliff in the valley they find themselves in, peering down to the sapphire waters crashing below.

He's seen pictures of the ocean before: in books, in some paintings around the manor, but this... _It's so big. It just... goes on forever._ It's more than he's ever imagined, stretching out to the horizon, going as far as he could see, then even farther. And the _sky_! He looks up, _not recognizing the stars above his head_! Luke's eyes shine in helpless wonder at the night blanket above him, vast, beautiful, _enormous._ Bigger than the same oval he's been looking at for all these years, so huge and close enough that he reaches up and can almost feel it in his hands: dark velvet, cool silk, speckled with tiny shards of rainbow-colored gemstones. It's everything he's ever dreamed of.

_No: it's __**more**__..._ The salted scent of the ocean below, the gentle smell of the flowers behind him, the sharp tang of crushed grass beneath his body. The wind here, it's _so_ sweet, more than he thought possible. And he can feel it all go right though him, wrap around his soul, and set it soaring. _This_ was what he'd been waiting for, and he could feel it here, now, in his grasp. For the first time ever, he's _free_. Really, truly free. This is a feeling he never wants to lose, never wants to let go of.

A bout of laughter escapes him. He can do anything he wants to! He could lay here and sleep until the sun rises and not move, letting the heat of the day bake him until he burns, he could run and just keep running. He's not afraid of the dangerous cliff he's leaning over: knows it can kill him if he falls that far -the lectures he's gotten from climbing the trees at the manor...- but it would be worth it; to die here, free, to feel that wind whip against him as his last memory.

No, he wants to climb. Luke is going to go, travel, he's going to find the tallest tree in the whole world. Maybe, if he does, if he climbs high enough, he'll be able to reach the stars and get stuck up there; beyond the Fon Belt. He doesn't have to rush: he can do it all: run and jump and roll through the fields without being scolded for acting childish, for not being enough of whatever it was he wasn't enough of. He has all the time in the world now.

The woman touches his shoulder and her words finally break through to him. Escort him home? She thinks his trembling is _fear_? Well, maybe just a little- a fledgling finally pushed from the nest: not knowing exactly what he should do next. But Luke knows he can figure it out, and whatever it is, it'll be _his_ choice. And _that_, that gives him the strength to stand up and look at the one who's responsible for all of this, smiling at her with a sheer delighted _content_ that it turns her aggravated\concerned\cautious frown into a blushing smile. Then he shakes his head, "I'm not going back."

"What about your family?"

His mother. Guy. Van.

But... every bird leaves the nest someday, spreads their wings and flies. He tells her this, and sees her frown again, harder. And it almost makes him panic: he _can't_ lose this now that he's found it! He can't! "If I promise you I'll go back someday, will you set me free so I can fly away?" Because he _does_ love his mother, and cherishes his best friend; but he can't go back there yet, not until he's _seen_; until there's no way they can cage him again.

He sees the confusion- she's not like Guy; she can't understand the way he thinks, the times when he gets ahead of his words _still_ sometimes, even after seven years. She doesn't know. And instead of being angry, or worried, Luke pities her just a little. That she can't understand, can't appreciate all this beauty, this _freedom_ around them. So he treats her like one of the maids, speaking _their_ words, tells her how it's always been his life-long dream to go out and see the world: everything it has to offer. The excitement in his voice, the gleam in his eyes as he grabs her hands and tries to explain it all: the wonders waiting for him out here, the awe of the sheer _vastness_ surrounding them, his innocent curiosity about seeing an actual flowing river for the very first time, the simple pleasure of matching his metal against a worthy opponent like her.

He doesn't know which part of it gets to her, but something changes in the blue eyes staring at him, a spark of the same type of fire he feels within, and, hesitantly, she nods. Somehow, he's not quite sure but he really doesn't care, she agrees to show him at least a small part of this great wide world of theirs. Convinces him to at least go the direction back to Baticul, if only because she has unfinished business there; but she promises that after that, she'll take him wherever he wants to go.

Walking together towards the exit of the valley -the monsters much more dangerous during the day and it's best they leave before then- Luke has never felt so free, and he looks up at the sky he can feel like the blood in his veins, the beat of his heart, and he wonders: Just how high he can get, finally able to truly fly on his own wings.


End file.
